Crash and Burn
by Isica
Summary: Mycroft is exhausted from constantly looking after his brother. When he finally crashed, it was never going to be pretty... Takes place after TAB.
1. Chapter 1

Crash and Burn

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. At all. Sadly.

/

Mycroft was tired. Looking back, (and he could, thanks to his excellent memory) he hadn't ever been this tired before.

The last few years of guarding Sherlock as well as being responsible for a large part of British intelligence and security had taken their toll. A few grey hairs here and there, lack of sleep and any fat he gained that Sherlock noticed was a result of caffeine and sugar rushes. Where Sherlock used drugs, Mycroft used sugar.

In theory, life should have been easier after his brother met John Watson. Mycroft recalled meeting him for the first time, a traumatised soldier, and remembered Redbeard anew. His brother would take in the stray and help him flourish and in return, Watson would restrain him. He also received a further boost in Mycroft's estimation when he refused the not-inconsiderable bribe to spy on Sherlock.

Any thoughts that this would keep Mycroft less involved in his brother's life were quickly dashed. Within days, he had to upgrade the surveillance on both Sherlock and John. As cases continued, he added, for he was nothing if not thorough, Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Molly Hooper. The subsequent paperwork almost drove him to despair at times.

When Sherlock decided to fake his death to save his friends and stop Moriarty, Mycroft worked his fingers to the bone to put the arrangements in place. As utmost secrecy was called for, Mycroft worked alone, with limited contact with his brother, to plan out the deception. He then spent two years tracking his brother around the world and sending help when possible while the country grieved Sherlock's death.

Even after Sherlock's resurrection it never stopped. John's new fiancée, later wife, had to be added to his lists, although subsequent events proved he wouldn't have to worry about her. Then Sherlock shot Magnussen.

Mycroft once again worked tirelessly to prevent his brother's imprisonment, or secret execution. After all he had done, after everything Sherlock had done for Britain, all he could give his brother was six months of freedom. On a suicide mission.

Saying goodbye at the airport was hard, if he was honest. But the relief that he was now no longer responsible for his brother's life was undeniable.

 _Did you miss me?_

Son. Of. A.

* * *

'Well,' Sherlock said as they arrived back at Baker Street, 'now to solve the Moriarty puzzle. You see...'

'Perhaps later,' John interrupted. 'Tea first. Especially you and Mary. Mrs Hudson, would you mind?'

'Just this time dear, I'm not your maid,' came Mrs Hudson's familiar reply as she disappeared down the stairs (having learned from experience not to use Sherlock's kitchen). She returned with tea, biscuits and Mycroft and Anthea, who had just arrived. They both took a seat, but had Sherlock been watching he would have noticed how Mycroft fell into his chair more than usual.

Mycroft felt even more drained than before. In fact, he hadn't realised they were going to Baker Street until he'd agreed it to Anthea. Needing a bit of sugar, he quietly accepted a biscuit from the plate being handed round.

'Shouldn't you be cutting down on those?' came the expected jibe. Mycroft just sighed and took a bite. He hadn't eaten for days trying to save his brother and the resultant hunger coupled with the fright of his brother overdosing again AND seeing Moriarty was giving his blood sugar unacceptable lows for a functioning adult male. Plus, he needed to hold something. His hands were shaking.

The biscuit didn't taste very nice. Putting it to the side of his saucer, Mycroft concentrated on the tea. He could feel Anthea's eyes on him; he never normally refused a biscuit but he was too tired to fake interest when she was watching.

Sherlock though, was a whole different matter. He put on his best mask and said in a cheerful manner, 'So brother-mine, as fascinating as your theories would be, I really don't need any more drug-induced ravings today. Once was quite enough. Perhaps we'll speak again in the cold light of day.'

'I really am on very good form right now,' Sherlock resisted. And he did look fine, almost annoyingly so for someone who had just taken more illegal substances than anyone ever should.

'Nevertheless, I have more important matters to attend to,' Mycroft said, abandoning his empty teacup. More work, and less time to sleep. So begins the cycle again. 'So if you'll excuse me,'

He stood up, and his vision greyed around the edges. Leaning slightly against the umbrella, and praying to a God he didn't believe in that Sherlock hadn't spotted it, he said briskly, 'Contact me when you're sober, Sherlock. We will discuss this matter further.'

As they entered the black car waiting outside, Mycroft slumped down as much as he was able. Abandoning his usual courtesy, he instructed the driver to take him home first, ignoring Anthea's searching eyes.

Upon returning home, Mycroft worked on his paperwork for his customary six hours before ritually scrubbing himself free of the day in the shower. Deciding to forego food, he sought his bed. He was asleep as his head touched the pillow, trying to gain the maximum refreshment from so little time.

/

/

This is my first Sherlock story. Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Crash and Burn

Chapter 2

/

Anthea didn't know whether to be annoyed or worried. She'd rung Mycroft twice and each time it went to voicemail. Now she was waiting in the car outside his house, debating whether to go in. If her boss was fine, he would not appreciate her disturbing him. On the other hand, she'd always been taught to be aware. "Constant vigilance," as that character in her nephew's book used to say.

With that in mind, she cautiously opened the front door, gun in hand. Mycroft had given her a key as an "anniversary" present of sorts; she'd been working for him for a year and although he'd simply said it was for emergencies she knew better. He trusted her now.

Of course, all the trust in the world did not prepare Anthea for what she encountered. Upon entering the living room she found her boss unconscious, obviously dressed for work with an empty coffee cup at his side.

'Shit,' Anthea swore as she knelt at his side. Her boss' face was sheet-white, but a quick check of his pulse proved he wasn't dead, although it was fluttering. Pulling out her phone, she rang for an ambulance, cancelled meetings and informed Sherlock and by extension John to meet her at the hospital, in that order. While waiting for the ambulance she began assessing her surroundings as Mycroft had taught her. There were no signs of a break-in or any entry other than her (although she kept her gun close), nothing appeared to be missing, judging by the dust marks (although perhaps it was time to source a new housekeeper) and Mycroft did not appear to be injured. Having said that, upon closer examination Anthea could see the black shadows under his eyes, the new lines on his face and the grey hairs that surely hadn't been there last night? All this Anthea surmised by the time the ambulance arrived.

The paramedics were excellent; she couldn't fault them. They allowed her in the ambulance and took all the important information from her. She made a mental note of their names; Mycroft would want to thank them later.

Although nowhere near the intelligence level of either of the Holmes brothers, Anthea was not inconsiderable and Mycroft, despite his goldfish protestations, undertook to educate her on certain matters he deemed essential so that they could interact "on a more equal level." She calculated that, factoring in distance, average traffic at this time and speed of an ambulance, they should reach the hospital Mycroft was always taken to in twenty minutes.

Twenty-three minutes later, they arrived. She hadn't factored in the roadworks two streets down; Mycroft would not have been pleased. She followed the trolley carrying his still, white form down the corridor into a room, waited respectfully outside while they put him in a hospital gown and then handled his contemptuous brother and his concerned friend while her boss was being assessed.

'I don't know why Mycroft has to be in the hospital. He didn't get attacked and it's not like he was the one who overdosed yesterday. My brother always did have a flair for the dramatic,' Sherlock grumbled without a hint of irony as he paced the corridor, collar up and swishing his coat around.

Anthea and John exchanged glances. Dealing with Holmes brothers for years had formed a tenuous bond between them, as well as enhancing their understanding. Both knew that Sherlock was very worried, yet both knew that under no circumstances should it be mentioned.

'I mean why does he have to be ill anyway? What does he do all day?' Sherlock continued. 'He runs the country from a computer.'

Anthea rolled her eyes. She could see John shaking his head. Finally Sherlock stopped moving and they settled down to wait. Fortunately for all concerned, they did not have to wait long. A doctor came out about ten minutes later.

'Well?' Sherlock demanded before the doctor could even open his mouth. 'What has my brother complained about this time?'

The doctor looked at Sherlock as though he wasn't quite sure such a creature existed, then turned to Anthea. 'Mr Holmes' condition is fortunately not serious, but he is suffering from exhaustion and needs a few days' rest, possibly more. You did the right thing in bringing him in. You may go in to see him now.

Typically, Sherlock pushed past the doctor without a word of thanks, while John and Anthea were more courteous. They entered Mycroft's room and saw the man in front of them.

Sherlock stood, motionless, in the corner of the room, assessing everything he could see. Mycroft was now asleep rather than unconscious, judging by the monitor readings and the even rise and fall of his chest. The room had been cleaned recently, two or three hours ago considering the dust build up in the corners of the room. His brother was looking thinner in the hospital gown, despite all the weight jibes and he was very pale and still. Even asleep, there was still a slight frown on his face.

Sherlock stopped and mentally shook himself. Even his thoughts were not in order. Something must be wrong with him.

Anthea and John looked at the situation differently. John approached the sleeping man through the mind of a doctor, Anthea as the assistant to the man who held a thousand secrets.

John noted what the doctors had. The clear signs of fatigue he hadn't spotted yesterday, the pallor, the wrinkles, the grey hair. Anthea saw the temporary crippling of British security, for whether anyone acknowledged it or not, it was ultimately Mycroft Holmes who made most of the decisions. She also felt guilt that she'd been oblivious to all the signs prior to this. Her boss had a better mask than even she realised. Of course, the biscuit yesterday should have been a clue. Mycroft never refused a biscuit, especially custard creams. She realised she was worried about him. 'Sentimental weakness,' Mycroft called it, but she'd always found it beneficial, especially to her motivation.

'Well, what are we all standing around here for?' Sherlock broke the silence suddenly. 'We may as well leave. We can't help a sleeping man.' And with this he whirled outside. John stayed long enough to share another exasperated glance, and then hurried after him, experience indicating that Sherlock should not be alone at these times.

Anthea took one last look at the bed, sighed and stepped outside. Down the corridor she could see Watson catching up with a striding Sherlock, coat billowing behind him. Mentally, she turned her attention to managing Mycroft's workload while he was resting. The rest of the staff would have to actually pull their weight for once. If they completed the current proposals and submitted them, all Mycroft would have to do is give them final approval. There were no other vital projects coming up, so meanwhile threat assessments could be carried out, the backlog of security upgrades could be tackled and she herself could sort through some of Mycroft's routine paperwork, leaving only the essentials for when he was well enough to return. Any meetings he would normally attend she or another representative from the department would have to be read in and they could go from there. With all this in mind, and now being noted in her phone, Anthea called the car and headed to the office.

/

/

Sherlock deduces you are about to review this.


	3. Chapter 3

Crash and Burn

Chapter 3

/

The news of Mycroft's illness took his department by surprise. Never had they known the boss to take a sick day, as one put it. The department was comprised of the elite of Britain, some of the smartest thinkers in the country, accompanied by some of the smartest hackers and programmers. Everyone was trained in at least two languages, plus coding for the hackers and programmers, and between them they could decrypt every code and language in the world.

However all the talent in the world did not make them efficient administrators. Anthea gave them a stern lecture on the importance of actually completing their paperwork and filing it, with the subtle hint of the stress it would cause their already-sick boss. The message got through; after all, they were remiss, not stupid. She dismissed them and went into Mycroft's office.

As always, it was as immaculate as a busy office could be; the papers were piled high, but neat and filed in trays. Anthea began to methodically sort through the papers that needed completion and filed them into sections.

She fairly gasped at the quantity of work in front of her. There was no conceivable way Mycroft was completing all of this while at the office. She'd known for a long time he took work home, but in order to be as efficient as he displayed, he must be taking home a good few hours of work every night. No wonder he was exhausted. In addition to this, she could see no evidence of any of the recent work he'd put in for Sherlock, which was strange, although he never normally let her see all of that work, calling it "family matters."

After a few hours she had sorted all that she could see. Unfortunately, it appeared that a few key logistical papers were missing. They must have been among those that Mycroft was carrying and which were left behind at his house when she accompanied him to the hospital. Inwardly berating herself on Mycroft's behalf, for he would never have permitted such a dereliction of competence if he were awake, Anthea briskly called the car and returned to Mycroft's house for the missing documents.

She quickly found what she was looking for. Fortunately for her, Mycroft was as scrupulous in filing at home as he was in the office. All the papers were neatly filed in his briefcase under coded headings and after a quick look through, all appeared to be in order.

Except one. It was an innocuous document, in and of itself, but it was unnecessary to Mycroft's current work and Anthea did not know why her boss had logged it out. In an uncharacteristic display of curiosity, she decided to look around and see if the paper could be located. After all, she reasoned, if no one would be occupying the house for a few days, it was her responsibility to ensure no sensitive material was left unattended.

Before she had been an assistant to Mycroft, Anthea's previous role was "physical information gathering," or in common parlance, a spy. It was something she excelled in, as most of the department, brilliant as they were, simply had trouble going out and blending in seamlessly. Anthea had been the one who planted bugs, trackers and generally helped spread the cyber-omniscience the department had. Therefore, she knew some ideal places to hide information in a house like Mycroft's.

Her intuition was spot-on. The mantel clock was broken. Grinning, as this had been one of her inventions in the first place, she opened the front and proceeded to twist the hands until she heard a click at twenty to four. Looking down, she saw the drawer slide out of the side of the fireplace.

She pulled out the box file and frowned at its weight. It was heavy, but that was not what bothered her. If a smart spy found this they would assume it was all the information hidden away but she was in the house of a Holmes brother. She continued to twist the clock until she had gone all the way round and by the end, two more boxes joined the first.

Smirking, she heaved the boxes onto the nearest table. Calculating box weight, taking into account materials combined with total paper capacity in each one multiplied by a factor of three meant there was a back-breaking amount of documents in her hands. For once, she was at a loss as to their purpose as well. Everything bar that one paper had been accounted for.

The boxes were locked of course, but Anthea picked them with ease. Once, early in her new employment, on a long car journey, Mycroft had taught her how to do so. She didn't have the heart to tell him her lock-picking skills were actually excellent, and she had already tested them on his desk locks, so she pretended to learn until he stared out the window and calmly mentioned that if she touched his desk without permission again, he'd make sure she disappeared. She'd denied it all but he then started a list of her errors in her attempt to avoid his detection, told her to spy effectively or not at all, then picked a deadbolt with ease. It was on that day she discovered the extraordinary mind of Mycroft Holmes.

The contents of the boxes demonstrated another aspect of Mycroft; something she knew was there, albeit buried so deeply it could not be seen, but permeated his core. They contained everything Mycroft had done for Sherlock in the last few weeks, as well as during his supposed death and subsequent exile from Britain. Anthea took three hours and skimmed everything, her normally immovable façade crumbling in the face of Mycroft's demonstrations of love for his brother.

The coding on it alone almost broke her. Mycroft was in the habit of writing down where and when he wrote the papers, so that meeting attendees and minutes could be traced. Anthea alone knew he had a coding for his home too, and the revelation of every page being headed with that code in Mycroft's handwriting, over and over, the fatigue showing through the penned numbers, caused her heart to break for her boss.

How many hours, how many days, had he worked at home, alone, planning all of this? How many times had he worked through the night and come to work the next day? How long had this gone on? She didn't have to speculate, Mycroft's notes laid it out for her in damning black-and-white detail. He had gone for days without sleep, and now she looked back, she remembered teasing him about all the snacks he grabbed at work, which were probably his only sustenance at that time. So he hadn't been eating properly either. She remembered Sherlock mocking Mycroft yesterday. Perhaps that biscuit was the only thing he'd managed to eat all day.

Thinking of Sherlock suddenly brought a cold fury to Anthea's head. Her boss was in the hospital, having collapsed from exhaustion, and Sherlock had mocked him for his fatigue. It was all that man's fault. _He_ had caused the trouble that they were all facing, and he dared to blame Mycroft.

Making a decision, because God knows that man needed to be put in his place and preferably before Mycroft woke up and Sherlock put his oar in, Anthea phoned Watson, told him to meet her at Baker Street, then called Sherlock and invited herself over in tones that brooked no argument from a momentarily stunned detective.

/

/

Mycroft dreams that you are about to review.


End file.
